Between
by grandR
Summary: After the barricades fall and Les Amis all perish, Grantaire is stuck between heaven and limbo. A mysterious voice tortures him with his insecurities. His friends try to do what they can from beyond to help him, but he is stuck between until he can face the voice and, most importantly, himself.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So as much as I desperately wish I could report otherwise, I'm still not Victor Hugo. This is my second fanfic attempt, and it is very different than the first. This will hopefully become a multi-chapter thing with a new one every week. Please R&R and I hope you enjoy!

**Between**

The silence was the first thing he remembered. Before he could even open his eyes, he was acutely aware of it. It was the kind of silence most people never experience in their entire lives. The strange thing about it was it wasn't silence in the normal sense. Silence is defined as lack of sound, but this silence was so substantial it almost had a sound of its own. It was absolute. It was nearly tangible. The café Musain had been many things, but never silent. And surely never this kind of silent. This unsettled him. He struggled for a moment to open his eyes, but it was as if he had no control over them. He wasn't sure why, but somehow he remained strangely calm about this new development.

He experimented with his limbs. First he wiggled his toes. It felt as if they didn't exist until he thought about them…like they were appearing right on the spot. He was overcome with the sensation that nothing around him was permanent. Indeed this impermanence stretched to encompass him as well. He couldn't pinpoint any solid thing on his body or around him until he thought of it. As he realized he needed to be sitting somewhere, he felt a floor beneath him that hadn't been there before. As he wondered what room he was in, a wall materialized behind his back.

For some reason, he had absolutely no doubt that he was in the Musain, although had anyone asked him he surely wouldn't have been able to come up with a coherent reason why. He still couldn't get his eyes to open. It was as if he was expected to fully create his surroundings before he was allowed to view them. He pondered the fact that he should probably be wearing clothes, and suddenly became aware of the distinct scratch of fabric against skin. Without the luxury of sight, the desire to smell came next. Wherever it was, this place needed a smell. No sooner had he thought it, but the smell of gunpowder laced with absinthe wafted up to his nostrils.

It is said that smell is the strongest of the five senses. Perhaps this is true, for in that second, a thousand sharp but unconnected details came rushing back like a swarm of insects and converged on him all at once.

_Gunfire._

_Shouting._

_Explosions._

_Screams. _

_Blood. So much blood. _

_And…a man…_

A vision appeared in his minds eye so brilliant he wondered if maybe he had regained sight after all. This man – this vision – was familiar. Achingly familiar. A pure, marble-like face. The face looked as if it could have been cold, but the only expression gracing its features was pure, unbridled passion. He was left breathless by his own hallucination. And then, a name was suggested from the back of his mind.

_Enjolras_.

It was as if the scattered puzzle of his brain was put to right in that single word. In a split second he knew, and he understood. He remembered. The meetings. Les Amis. His friends. The battle. Building the barricade. The soldiers. So many soldiers. And…his Enjolras standing there, flag in hand, beside the open window. His Enjolras defiantly staring down a dozen national guardsmen. His Enjolras seeing him, grabbing his hand, smiling…_permitting it._ He felt a deep pain in his chest unlike anything he had felt before. It was worse than the bullets, for it had been much quicker and he had had Enjolras then. He doubled over in agony. It took him a second before he realized that it must be like everything else in this place – as soon as he thought something, it manifested itself physically. Thinking of Enjolras in this place was literally breaking his heart.

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. It took him a moment to realize that it was a human voice. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear. He thought maybe he was hallucinating. But he wasn't. It was there, and it was saying his name.

It was a familiar voice, but he couldn't place it. It was deep and low and little bit frightening. At this thought, he was suddenly aware of hair on his arms, as it was standing on end. It occurred to him to try to speak.

"Yes?" he responded. He expected his voice to be hoarse from lack of use, but it was surprisingly smooth.

_Grantaire_, the voice hissed. It still retained its familiar quality, but it…it hissed. He was confused, but not for long because the voice continued.

_Skeptic. Drunkard. Worthless cynic. You slept while your friends died. How dare you think yourself worthy to die with him? How dare you think yourself worthy to stand beside one so pure and majestic, and press your worthless hand to his virtuous one? How dare you think that one so great needed you to die beside him? What gave you the right instead of any of the others?_

He forgot he could speak. The words knocked all the fight out of him. He slumped back against the wall, suddenly physically weak.

_Jehan. Shall we talk about Jehan? They took him away. He died afraid and alone, but he died with the words of revolution and defiance on his lips. _

He felt himself begin to shake. He covered his ears and realized before he knew what he was doing that he was rocking back and forth. Still, the voice pushed on.

_The firing squad went after him. The gentle poet, tortured. Ripped apart by bullets. His body was barely recognizable as human. The mangled corpse…._

But then, another voice was distinctly heard.

"Grantaire? Grantaire? R? Where are you?"

It was sweet and gentle. Soft, and delicate, and…

"Jehan!" he choked out, realizing he was in tears.

He realized another thing. He could…open his eyes…

And sure enough. There, in front of him, was Jehan. He was wearing the same clothes he had died in, but they were clean and pressed with not so much as a wrinkle or a speck of dust. No blood, no sign of torture there. Just…Jehan. His eyes sparkled a little more brilliantly than he remembered; his hair was a richer shade of brown; his skin a glowing pale; but above all, his smile…

"Grantaire!"

Grantiare moved to embrace him, but the smile disappeared. "No, Grantaire. You cannot touch me. See? Try."

He did. He flung his arms around what should have been his friend. Should have been. But they closed around mere air. Grantaire let out a confused moan of frustration.

Jehan smiled sadly. "Oh, Grantaire. I cannot stay long. You see, I am already on the other side."

"Other…you mean…heaven?" Grantaire asked slowly.

Jehan nodded. "I suppose that is how most people would know it. Yes, Grantaire, I am in heaven."

"But…where am I?"

"Between," the poet answered simply.

Grantaire shook his head. "No. No. This is the Musain. It was all a dream. You're a dream. I had too much absinthe, and...and it's late, and pretty soon Courfeyrac or Combeferre or Joly will come and wake me and say it's morning and we'll all be back planning for the revolution, and Enjolras-" his voice broke there, for he knew. Of course he knew.

"They are all with me, Grantaire. You are the only one left behind."

"But why? Why is this the Musain and why am I awake and why are you here if I'm not going to make it to heaven?" He cried, getting steadily more worked up. "I never planned to make it to heaven. I made a point not to believe in heaven! Just leave me alone to rot in limbo or hell or wherever I'm going. This is making it worse, Jehan. You're…you're killing me again…" he finished in a pleading whisper.

Had he paid attention to Jehan's face, he might have noticed the pain and sympathy written all over it. But he didn't. He noticed nothing but his own pain and grief.

"Grantaire. It's not my decision. It's your own."

"My own?" he snapped. "You think I'd choose to stay here all by myself? Why the hell am I here, Jehan? If you're not going to help me, get out and leave me alone."

Jehan looked at him sadly. "It is the Musain because it becomes whatever place you want it to be the most. As for why you are between…you are the one holding yourself back, Grantaire. You are the smartest man I know. When you were sober, you could be the most charming as well. You were kind and pure and I know you have a heart and a soul. You wouldn't have died the way you did if you didn't. But you don't believe in yourself enough. You depend on us too much, and you need to show yourself that you don't need us."

"Do you mean…I'm stuck here…alone?!" he cried, his panic growing. "Jehan! No! Don't leave me alone forever!"

Jehan shook his head. "I can't stay forever. But I am here for another reason. I am here to show you that, once, your world was full of joy and light."

"The world is never full of joy and light, Jehan. I spent our whole lives trying to get you to take off the damn blinders and see that the world is a terrible terrible place and always will be," he snapped.

"Ah, but you didn't always believe that, did you?"

And suddenly, he couldn't see again. There was a strange whirling sensation, and he felt himself no longer in the Musain. There was grass beneath his feet, and a flowery smell in the air, and a warm breeze blowing through the trees, and…

"Emile!"

Emile. That was his name, although it hadn't been used in years. Not since she had called him that….

"Sophronie!" he cried, and ran toward the voice. Jehan chuckled sadly. "She is but a shadow as well," he said softly.

He opened his eyes and there she was. His light. His life. His little sister. His Sophronie. She was a beautiful, delicate creature, and he was struck by it all the more for her youth and knowing it had been years since he had seen her. She was fair skinned, and her loose, dark curls resembled his own. He was about to turn and shout at Jehan for bringing him here if he couldn't even talk to her when…he saw himself. He couldn't have been more than 12. She was four years younger, but they were inseparable – they were darkness and light, the sun and the moon, air and water. They were different as different could be, but this served only to strengthen their bond.

He watched as the younger version of himself ran to his little Sophronie and spun her around, her white lacy dress trailing beside her as she laughed. Ah, what a laugh. It was musical and softly caressing, like angels or doves or butterflies' wings.

Sophronie was beautiful, while Emile was not. Sophronie was clever, but not applied enough to be considered 'intelligent' in the conventional way. Emile was eloquent and genius-level intelligent. She was good with the physical and emotional, while he was good at manipulating words and ideas. They completed each other.

He watched as they sat together. He braided flowers into her cascading curls as she sang and laughed. Then, they lay back and looked at the clouds.

"That one looks like a castle," she said with a giggle. He turned and looked at her with a smile.

"How would you know what a castle looks like, silly girl?" The affection was clear in his gaze and his voice.

She shrugged, and continued to play with the daisy in her delicate fingers.

"One day, I'll build you a castle. You'll see."

She rolled over and propped her head up on her elbows. "Will you, Emile? Oh, will you?!"

He chuckled, and it was a surprisingly rich sound for a boy so young. "Yes, my dear Sophronie. I'll be leaving for school soon, but when I get smart, I can get rich. And when I'm rich, I'll build you a castle and we'll live there forever and ever."

She smiled radiantly. "I'd like that, Emile." Then she closed her eyes and began to hum again. The scene faded with the song, until suddenly, the hard floor of the Musain was beneath him once more.

"You were happy, once," said Jehan quietly. Grantaire turned to him, and his eyes were suddenly full of tears.

"What are you trying to do to me, Jehan? You know what happened to her. You know why."

"Can't you understand? The joy is in remembering…" he said softly.

"Remembering?" cried Grantaire. "I remember perfectly. I remember that I went off to school and when I returned, Sophronie was married off. Sixteen years old and married off to some Bonapartist. I remember going to find her and having her pregnant. I remember the bruises around her face and the way the light went out of her eyes." He paused, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears from coming. "I remember burying my sweet little sister because that wretch of a man my family married her off to without me even knowing beat her to death and broke her spirit. That is what I remember, Jehan. My little sister is dead. You want me to be _happy_?" He spat the final words with fury. When he finally opened his eyes, though, Jehan was gone. "JEHAN!" he cried frantically. Suddenly, a force from nowhere knocked him down and pinned him against the wall. Right where he died. He couldn't see again. The hissing voice was back.

_Well done._ it jeered. _You've pushed him away again. _

"JEHAN!"

_He's gone, you stupid fool. Gone. _


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow thank you for the kind reviews! I'm sorry I'm a day late on the update, but I'm so glad people are enjoying it :) please continue to review if it floats your boat!

**Chapter 2**

"No! Stop! Jehan! Come back!" Grantaire cried in vain.

_He cannot. But even if he could, I doubt he would_ the voice sneered.

"That's not true!" Grantaire responded desperately. "Jehan was the kindest –"

_Yes, and what a way to repay him _it laughed humorlessly, and Grantaire physically cringed back against the wall. _He and all the others. Who was next? Which of the men you called friends was next to die while you slept off the stupor? Ah, yes, Bahorel was it?_

Grantaire couldn't help it. A barely perceptible "No" escaped his lips. It couldn't have been Bahorel…

_The fighter!_ the voice pressed on. _Your strong, constant warrior, bayoneted, I believe. Ah, yes. He was the first killed in combat. Everyone knew it had to be someone, but no one expected it to be Bahorel. Yes, the one who could beat anyone in a fight, taken down by a simple guardsman, stabbed four times. Not one of the blows was fatal immediately. He lay there, screaming, dying, covered in blood and begging for –_

"Stop!" Grantaire cried. He felt like he was going to vomit. He was shaking and he realized that he had been crying the whole time. Bahorel. No. He couldn't think of it. It couldn't be.

The voice just laughed.

_Stop? Why? You deserve it. If you had been there, you could have fended off the guardsman, and kept your friend alive a little longer. But you're a coward. You slept while he fought for every breath, and you slept while he died, frightened and alone. You were always a coward, Grantaire. See? Even now you do nothing to fight it. You know it to be true. You know that Bahorel's death is your fault because you were snoring away, safe in the café while he laid facedown, bleeding out and choking on his own blood –_

"R?" came a gruff, achingly familiar voice. "Grantaire?"

The hissing stopped suddenly. Grantaire found he could open his eyes again. And there was Bahorel. Always less openly affectionate than Jehan, he just looked down at him.

"Um…hello," he said, in that deep, smooth voice Grantaire hadn't realized how much he had missed.

"Bahorel!" he mumbled, wiping the tears away. "Why are you here?" he asked tiredly.

"Gee, that's a nice welcome. Have a nice afterlife to you, too," the other man teased. His coal black hair was cleaner and his green eyes looked somehow greener than he remembered.

"I can't touch you either, can I?"

Bahorel shook his head, lowering his eyes. "Jehan told me he was here for you first."

"Did he," Grantaire muttered, feeling a physical searing pain of guilt. At least Jehan was alright.

"He wanted me to say…he's not mad, but his time was up…"

"What the hell does that mean, Bahorel?" Grantaire cried, suddenly near hysterics. This was all too much. It was bad enough that he had to spend eternity in some other place and never see his friends again, but having them come for a few aching moments each was more than he could bear, especially accompanied by the hissing voice.

He sighed. "Jehan was here to remind you of the joy you once felt. I am here to show you your own courage."

"Me? Courage? Bahorel, I'm a coward. Just leave it at that and let me –"

But before he could finish, the ground and the wall disappeared again, and the now-familiar whirling began.

When it stopped, he realized he was standing on a cold marble floor. Damn, why hadn't he thought of shoes back when everything he needed just appeared?

A strange smell he hadn't smelled in years filled his nostrils. It was…parchment, and ink, and…school. He opened his eyes. Sure enough, they were in a classroom.

The nameless priest, one of many who had educated him in his school days, was pacing between long rows of wooden tables with matching wooden benches. He couldn't place him. He had blocked out all the memories from this place as best as he could. In the back row sat a pretty, wide-eyed, frightened-looking boy with curly reddish hair. At the table across from him, was seated a young Grantaire of about 16. No one else was in the room. This appeared to be a punishment or detention of sorts.

"You boys would like to get out of here, yes?" the priest inquired in an strident, nasally voice.

They both nodded, the redhead with terrified eagerness, Grantaire a bit more reserved, like he had done this before.

The priest turned to face them. "Well, do you know why you are here?"

The redhead blinked. "Because I couldn't remember how to say the Lord's Prayer in Latin," he whispered quietly.

"And you?" the priest snapped at Grantaire.

"Because I refused to," he said proudly, defiantly.

"If you two want to leave, I'm warning you to give up your little game right now."

"Game, Monsieur?" they said in unison.

"You think I can't see through this? Grantaire may be destined for hell and beyond repair," at this, both adult and young Grantaire rolled their eyes simultaneously, "but you, Charbonneau. I will not stand for you being pulled along with his blasphemous schemes."

"Monsieur," said the boy, Charbonneau, who was near tears, "I don't know Grantaire. I told you already, I forgot it. I believe in God, I do."

"You stay with me, Charbonneau. Grantaire, out into the hall. You stay there and don't move a muscle." The priest took shadow Grantaire by his collar and all but dragged him into the hall. Grantaire and Bahorel followed. The huge stone door shut with a resounding crash behind them.

Grantiare studied himself up close for the first time. He looked so young and fresh, but so unhappy to be there. With good reason, he thought, as the memories suddenly returned and overwhelmed him. They were almost too much, and he cringed. He remembered this priest. He thought he knew what was about to happen.

"Why are we here, Bahorel?" he whispered through clenched teeth, forgetting his other self couldn't hear him. Bahorel ignored him, however.

Young Grantaire was obviously ready to run, but something close to curiosity overcame him and he peered through the small beveled glass window. This was an odd occurrence. What would the priest want with Charbonneau alone? He couldn't see much, but the priest was very close to Charbonneau. Too close. He was running his hand up and down the boy's body and touching him in places even 16-year-old Grantaire knew you weren't supposed to be touched. All at once, older Grantaire remembered this specific memory and stepped back, looking at Bahorel in wordless horror. Again, his (albeit silent) plea was ignored.

16-year-old Grantaire had other ideas. With a burst of sudden energy, he whipped open the door. Charbonneau was pressed against the table, tears streaming down his face. The priest jumped at Grantaire's entrance. Enraged, he turned to him.

"I said stay there, you little –" he rounded on him and tried to hit him, but Grantaire shifted deftly.

"Leave him alone," Grantiare growled, standing between the priest and the terrified Charbonneau. The stone door was open now, and to do anything to Grantaire would be risking being heard down the hall.

With a face white with rage, the priest smiled. It was the most terrifying thing the 16-year-old had ever seen. "Get. Out." he whispered.

Grantaire didn't need to be told twice. He put his arms around the shaking Charbonneau, and dragged him as gently as he could into the hall, where Bahorel and the shadow of his older self had witnessed the whole thing. Taking the younger boy around the corner, he seated him on a stone bench and wrapped his arms around him.

"It's ok," he said softly, and Grantaire noticed a tenderness in himself he hadn't seen very much in his later years. He was suddenly overcome with the desire to embrace both himself and the younger boy.

Charbonneau was too petrified to move or do anything but bury himself deeper into Grantaire.

The scene faded into black, and then the Musain materialized again.

Bahorel turned to Grantaire. "You had courage, once," he said quietly.

He shook his head, his cheeks wet with tears again as he slumped back against the wall. "I was too late, Bahorel. The boy was damaged. I was too late to save him, just like I was too late to save you. What's the use of trying? I'm always too late."

Bahorel was there. He was reaching towards him, mouth open, about to speak, and Grantaire almost forgot that they couldn't touch. He seemed so real. So permanent, so _there_…when….suddenly, he wasn't…

"No! Bahorel! Not you, too!" he screamed. But no one was there to hear.

_Always too late_, the voice hissed, echoing his own sentiments. Grantaire slid to the ground, as his eyesight disappeared once again.

_And now you're alone again, you coward. Too late once more._


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Oh my goodness! I appreciate your enthusiastic reviews so much! All of you mean so much to me and keep me excited to continue this project! Continue to R&R if you please, but most importantly – enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

"Why?" Grantaire whispered. "Can't you stop? Go back wherever you came from and leave me to rot in hell in peace."

_What, just leave you now and ignore the rest of your friends? That hardly seems fair! Just because you didn't care about them when they were alive doesn't mean we can just forget them now!_

He flinched a little at the insult, but kept fairly still.

_Good, good. Giving up so soon I see! Now, who was next?_

The voice drew out the silence before it spoke again just to make Grantaire writhe, trying and failing to keep himself from imagining which of his friends was next. It was like looking at a corpse. It felt awful and wrong but he couldn't stop.

_Ah, yes, it was Lesgles, wasn't it._

He flinched again. Of course it was. Poor Lesgles and his luck.

_The good-natured man never had much luck, did he? _the voice continued, echoing his own sentiments. _It's a pity, too He was so good and kind. He went out of his way to make everyone happier. Why was his luck so awful when you, the far les deserving, were lucky enough to miss the deaths of the rest, only to conveniently awaken in time to earn your heroic friend's attention?_

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut even though he couldn't see, as if pressing his lids together would keep the words from coming. Of course it did not. The voice continued on, nothing if not persistent.

_Yes, your poor unlucky Lesgles was stabbed in the arm before Bahorel, even. He was stabbed again in the leg, and shot once in the shoulder. Still he lived. He lived to watch Bahorel struck down before him. He lived with his friend's blood spattered on him, mixing with his own. He knew he was going to die - his wounds were many and the blood loss great. But still he lived. He lived to watch the young Gavroche struck down. He saw Mabeuf and the man Enjolras shot in the Musain fall over and over in his hallucinations. Still he bled. He grew delirious and lightheaded, collapsing but still fully conscious as his blood ran into the growing red river in the street, soaking his clothes and into his skin as he tried to avoid thinking about whose blood it was. People trod on him, thinking him dead. The pain was unbearable, but he couldn't cry out. He desperately hoped for Joly to find him one last time, but Joly was on the other side of the barricade, helping out. Yes, Grantaire, the one who actually cared for and deserved the man he loved had to die alone, while you who failed the one you claimed to love, got to die quickly and conveniently in his favour. _

"I do love him," Grantaire matched the hiss through his teeth. These descriptions were getting worse and worse. He was beginning to realize the horror of not being able to see. The darkness invited his minds eye to come up with vivid pictures of what the voice was describing. He couldn't push the image of poor Lesgles, alone and tortured, lying in a river of blood, writhing and hoping for his Joly to –

_He was strong, and you weren't even there. You didn't feel the blood of your friends on your skin. You didn't hear the screams of the dying, or feel the pain of a slow death, unable to cry out or see the one you loved one last time, with nothing left to do but wait through the hallucinations and beg for death. Waiting for the only relief for the agony that was denied by his bad luck –_

"You alright?" said a cheerful voice. The contrast between the voices was so sharp Grantaire jumped.

But the hissing stopped.

Head spinning, Grantaire opened his eyes to Lesgles, as he had come to expect. His brown eyes glittered merrily, and his shiny bald head looked cleaner and almost…poished?

"Lesgles," he greeted tiredly. This was emotionally and physically exhausting and, as much as he loved his friends, seeing them for short amounts of time hurt so much more than he could've ever imagined was possible for anything to hurt.

"Oh good! You are ok! You looked like you were having a fit or something!" he said, his usual easy smile looking a bit unsure.

"It's…it's nothing. Just a…nightmare, I guess."

His smile brightened again, and it was somehow ten times more brilliant than he had remembered and he hurt ten times more because of it. "Alright! Well, it's over now! I'm so glad to see you!" he beamed.

"Yes," Grantaire agreed quietly, completely not in agreement. He couldn't let himself get too excited. He knew he'd be leaving soon again, like everyone did.

Lesgles didn't seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, however. "Well, as much as I'd love to chat, I have work to do."

"Let me guess. You have another memory to show me, yes?" he said wearily.

"Indeed," said Lesgles much too happily, "You were a lucky man, Grantaire, but it's not a bad thing."

No sooner had he spoken, but the floor dropped out again and the spinning began.

"Dammit," Grantaire muttered.

And then it stopped and he was back to the now familiar state of blindness. As he waited for sight to return, he tried to get a feel for where he was. There was a solid floor beneath him and it smelled like school again, but not a horrid classroom he had been in many times. No, it had a more…official smell about it…

"Emile Grantaire," a deep voice rang out.

He opened his eyes, realizing he hadn't noticed immediately that he could - he had been thinking too hard.

There before him was a huge wooden desk with a man behind it. He had a silvery beard and harsh gray eyes. He had a pointed nose and prominent, bushy eyebrows. His mouth was a thin, set line.

On the other side of the desk stood a now 18-year-old Grantaire. His dark hair curled around his face pleasantly. He looked young still, but not as fresh or innocent as he had a mere two years prior.

Grantaire felt his heart well up a little as he realized what this scene was.

"Have a seat, M. Grantaire," the man boomed at a volume disproportionate to his small frame,

He did so, quietly seating himself on a chair. The man was the headmaster of the school, and he had been there for years. Grantaire had never liked him, but then again Grantaire never liked persons of authority much. Thinking back, this headmaster, M. Dubois, he thought he remembered, was one of the better ones.

But he never punished that awful man for what he did to Charbonneu, he reminded himself before he got too sentimental.

M. Dubois looked down at Grantaire. "You've been in trouble with me before, M. Grantaire," he began. Young Grantaire had a mixture of vague worry mixed with sharp defiance gracing his features.

"So?"

"So," Dubois replied, looking distinctly annoyed, "It has been brought to our attention that you aren't doing well in your classes. Why is that? Your marks back at school were above average – well above average. Prodigy level, to put it bluntly. At the beginning of your stay here, your work reflected the intelligence we admitted you for. But lately, you've produced barely average work. Why is that?"

He shrugged, the expression on his face unreadable.

M. Dubois sighed. The one class where you aren't slipping is art. You showed no predisposition for it, but your teacher says you are an exceptionally gifted student, Grantaire."

He looked at him smugly, thinking of Sophronie. "Am I?"

The man nodded, and pulled out a bundle that looked like a book but upon closer examination appeared to be a portfolio.

"My portfolio…." grown Grantaire whispered to Lesgles, who simply smiled.

Young Grantaire echoed him in a different tone. "My portfolio." It was full of pride and not a little bit of excitement.

The man nodded. "Your teacher showed your portfolio to a teacher from Paris. He was impressed. He said he would like to take you back to Paris with him to study art."

Grantaire's impassive façade was quickly abandoned and his face lit up like it had only a few times in his life. "Really? _Me_?"

Dubois didn't crack a smile, but his lip twitched a little at the boy's excitement. "Yes, you. When the other boys go to Universite to study, you, whose grades quite frankly wouldn't allow that option, will go to Paris to work with him and learn to perfect your art."

"My art…" he muttered, as if trying out the phrase.

The headmaster nodded. "Yes. More information will be given to you at a later date."

"My art…." he repeated, somewhat awestruck.

"You've been very lucky, you know that? Most boys with your grades never get the opportunity to make something of themselves, but you are being given a second chance. See that you don't blow it. You are excused."

Young Grantaire stood and raced out of the room. Grantaire himself followed, accompanied by a beaming Lesgles.

In the hall stood the familiar Charbonneau, looking significantly older and more handsome than he had looked before.

"I'm going to Paris for art!" Grantaire cried, running down the hall toward his friend's open arms.

Grantaire felt his heart grow light as he relived this moment. He closed his eyes, ready to feel Charbonneau's arms tight around him as they hugged, and –

The spinning. But why was it spinning? The memory wasn't over yet! His stomach turned, unprepared for the nauseous feeling. The floor of the Musain slammed up underneath him hard, not like he had fallen, but like it had been thrust suddenly upward to meet him. "LESLGES!" he cried, his voice almost hoarse. "The memory isn't over! Come back!" the lack of sight was suddenly the most frustrating thing he had ever experienced. All he wanted was to be able to open his eyes and find Lesgles standing there, and see Charbonneau and his younger self one more time.

Instead, the voice was there to meet him.

_What awful luck,_ it sneered, stressing the word _luck_ like it was a curse word. _Your Lesgles left you before you could even finish witnessing the memory._

"No!" Grantaire cried. "Lesgles! There must have been some mistake. What if he's hurt? Oh god…Lesgles, where are you?"

_I tell you, he's back beyond. He's left you just like you left Sophronie to abuse. Just like you left Charbonneau for art school. Just like you left your friends to die alone. The unlucky one, finally giving you a taste of the luck you deserve._

"I don't believe it! He was with me and…and smiling. It was a happy memory, too!" Grantaire defended, not willing to believe Lesgles was gone so quickly. It had been bad enough when the memories were complete, but this…

_Yes, so he was. Smiling because you would finally pay for leaving him and the others. Smiling because he could now seek revenge for you dying with the man you love while he died alone. Smiling because the undeserving one will finally pay for his good luck._

"No. Lesgles wouldn't…he couldn't…"

_Then where is he? _ the voice hissed tauntingly. _By all means, show me where he went._

Grantaire let out a horrific cry of anguish once more, for it was true. Lesgles was no longer with him. "I'll prove to you! You'll see!" he practically screamed.

The voice laughed mockingly. _Good luck._


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the delay. There's been some personal stuff and it's been hard to find time to write. I gave you some extra stuff today, so hopefully that'll make up for my absence! Please R&R and, as always, enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

It was quiet again. Ridiculously quiet. Grantaire began to wonder if perhaps no one else was coming after all. He waited for the voice. And waited. And waited. Nothing came.

Well this was new.

He experimented and found he could in fact open his eyes.

Without another person to focus on or vicious verbal abuse to react to, he found he had time to look about the Musain. It looked almost the same as it had before…minus the bulletholes and bloodstains. Minus the dust and usual grime, actually. It was much too clean to be the usual Musain. Too clean and too quiet.

He walked to the corner by the window. He knew. He remembered. His Enjolras. It happened here. Gently he ran his fingers across the windowsill and peered outside. Everything was white, shining with a kind of eerie bright light. It occurred to him vaguely that he could try to get out of here and see where he was and if this was all in fact a dream. But deep down he knew it wasn't. He looked down from the window, but there was no ground to look upon. Something told him that a jump from this window would mean never returning. He looked up. He saw no way to get up.

So this was his choice.

He was either left alone to fend off the voice and the torturous good intent of his friends, or he could jump to the horrors of whatever hell-like place existed below.

He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, and he swore he could almost feel a breeze from the window, soft and gentle. Beckoning.

Was jumping really such a bad deal? After all, staying here certainly didn't guarantee his following the others to heaven. Or beyond or whatever the hell they called it.

And even if he did make it. He'd have to spend his days as the one who doesn't quite belong. Not that he wasn't used to that, mind you, but he didn't think he fancied the idea of being reminded of it for all of eternity.

Then it dawned on him. Whatever he wanted most in this place was provided. This window was his escape. It was there for him, waiting for him to take it.

He opened his eyes to once more gaze at the window itself. How ironic. This was the spot of his first deaths. Deaths being plural, because he died with Enjolras in more ways than one. At this window died his soul, and against the wall his body. And now both would die again in this same spot.

With sudden, desperate resolve, Grantaire climbed the windowsill until he was standing shakily upon it, facing out into the white abyss.

_You could do it, you know. Give up. You did it so often, I'm not surprised. But why quit before the fun starts?_

And the voice made its dramatic reentry.

"You only want me around so you can continue to torment me. I'm not letting it happen," he growled. He closed his eyes, about to lean forward and end it all a second time, when –

"Grantaire!" cried a voice so full of terror and worry he instinctively turned to check what was wrong. Before he realized that _he_ was what was wrong.

There, in the center of the room, stood Joly, looking so concerned he might burst. Some things never change, he thought wryly.

He faced him. "Oh great, now you've come to stop me too. Listen, Joly. I love you. All of you. But I cannot let this…this _thing_ continue to torment me. I need to escape. I don't care how." He turned back to the window, somewhat less enthusiastic to jump now that his friend would have to watch.

"What thing?" Joly asked slowly. "Are you sick? Disease can make you see things and think things and even do things you wouldn't normally do…I didn't think it would exist in the afterlife but I guess nothing is really outside the realm of possibility…" he moved toward him like he was going to perform an examination, before realizing he couldn't touch him.

"Joly, I'm not diseased. I'm a tortured soul and I'm here to end it. Just let me end it."

"Well the memories are supposed to help, Grantaire. Just pull through. Lesgles didn't mean to stop the last one in the middle, time just ran out…you know his luck. He's really worked up about it, but it was a good memory. I don't understand. It isn't supposed to _torture_ you!"

Grantaire let out a frustrated moan and hopped down from the windowsill. He knew he couldn't do it in front of any of his friends, but especially not Joly. He'd probably dive out the window to save him and then where would they be?

"Fine. Take me to the next memory, then," he muttered resignedly.

Joly took a deep breath. Grantaire couldn't see again, and the spinning started. He almost forgot to be startled.

The surroundings weren't as distinct as a few of the previous memories. He wasn't really sure where they were at first. When he opened his eyes, he thought maybe there was a mistake. Then the details of the dimly lit room became discernable and he panicked.

"Joly! Joly why are we here? Oh my god Joly what…no…why?!" He looked away, staring at a space on the now all too familiar wall.

The little room was barely that – it was simply a small partition of an infirmary. A curtain was drawn around to make it seem like a room that would've sent anyone with any form of claustrophobia running in the other direction.

In this little room was a small, poorly kept bed. On the bed lay the pallid, yet somehow still devastatingly beautiful form of Charbonneau. He had aged gracefully, and now he looked like a man rather than the tired boy from the first memory. In rushed a Grantaire who appeared to be around 20.

"Oh my god, Sebastien. Oh my god." he knelt beside the bed and stared into the beautiful green eyes.

"Joly. Get me out of here. Now. Joly," Grantaire begged, still not looking at the scene playing out before them.

Charbonneau looked up at him and smiled weakly. "Emile," he whispered. "You came. I thought you might have forgotten me."

"Like hell I've forgotten you!" he cried, lowering his voice quickly before a nurse could come pry them apart. "Sebastien, in all your letters….why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me know how bad it was? I would have come long before now!"

"And pry you away from your work? Paris needs you! The world needs you!" The other man chuckled a little, and it turned into a violent coughing fit. As the fit subsided, he grabbed Grantaire's hand desperately. "Listen, I know they tell me otherwise but I've heard them talking. I'm not supposed to make it."

Grantaire shook his head and began to protest, but Charbonneau continued, cutting him off, "It's true and don't you try to tell me it's not. That's why I wanted you here. You're my dying wish. My last meal, if you will. You're my feast for the eyes."

Grantaire looked away chastely. He didn't know what to say.

"Is it too obvious now, hm? That I've loved you all along? From the moment you saved me in that classroom….I loved you. I love you! So there, now it's out. And I'm about to die so it doesn't even matter what you think of me for it. You're my best friend and so much more."

Grantaire looked him in the eyes, about to speak, when the other man began to shake. His whole body convulsed. He squeezed his hand. "Shhhh. Just go to sleep, now," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. He blinked them away rapidly so he could memorize every detail of this man. The first person to love him.

"Promise me…" he whispered hoarsely.

"Anything," Grantaire replied immediately.

"Promise me that someday, you will change the world. I know you can do it. And promise me that someday, you will love someone like I love you."

"Sebastien! No! Joly why are you showing me this? NO!" Grantaire wailed, tears streaming down his face, still focusing on that spot on the wall. Joly squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from crying as well.

The better-controlled tears of young Grantaire welled up, but threatened to spill over as well. "I promise," he whispered fiercely.

The other man's features relaxed into a smile. "Good," he breathed, as Grantaire leaned down to plant a kiss on the sweaty forehead. When he came back up, the other man was gone.

Grantaire slowly began to cry, until his whole body was racked with sobs. He clung to Charbonneau for a long time, until a nurse came in and shushed him. She wrapped her arms around the young man, and whispered in his ear.

"He hung on for you. Thank you."

"For what?" Grantaire barely managed to squeak out.

"He died a happy man because of you."

With that, the scene faded, and they were in the Musain once more. Grantaire rounded on Joly the minute he could open his eyes again.

"YOU! You told me these weren't supposed to torment! You told me…you…you told me…" he trailed off, unable to continue.

Joly looked at him with a gaze so tender it was clearly coming from an angel, and whispered, "Grantaire. You may not be a doctor, but right then, you did something the doctors could not. You healed a dying man."

"And what about me?" Grantaire hissed. "What about the one who had to live with that? Who had to live with knowing he flounced along in art school while his friend died alone? Who had to deal with that scene being played out every day in his nightmares for years? And don't tell me you forgot that this is when I started drinking. What are you trying to do to me?"

"I was trying to give you comfort. I was trying to-"

"Well fat lot of good that did!" Grantaire was really going now. "Get out of here. Now. Get out."

"Grantaire, please –"

"GET OUT!"

And all at once, Joly was gone.

Blindly, Grantaire stumbled toward the window, but an ugly laughter filled his ears. Yes, the voice again.

_Not so fast. You missed your chance at healing once again. You missed your chance to heal your friend, and you missed your chance to heal yourself. And now you're stuck here._

He slumped back up against the wall beneath the window, too tired to fight. He wanted Joly back so he could apologize. He wanted to tell him it did in fact make him feel better. He wanted to tell him he wished he hadn't started drinking right then. He wanted to tell him to find Charbonneau up there in heaven and say hello. But he couldn't, because he was still trapped there.

There was nothing left to do but wait. Wait for the next visitor, and hope they provided the opportunity for real healing.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Ahh more reviews! You guys are the best. There's a little more E/R in this chapter, so please R&R and as always, enjoy.

**Chapter 5**

His eyes pressed closed against the darkness, Grantaire focused on the rough feeling of the wood behind him. He realized it pricked a little bit, and he pressed harder, somewhat curious as to whether he would bleed in a place like this.

And then he heard it.

"_Grantaire."_

His heart stopped for a second. He knew that voice. But it couldn't be. It couldn't be…

"Enjolras?" he breathed, barely above a whisper.

"_Who else would it be?" _the voice responded.

His head hurt. His heart hurt. His everything hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't obey. He tried and tried and thrashed and tried in vain. He needed to see Enjolras. He couldn't be here and not be allowed to see him. Just catch a brief glimpse of him….

"Enjolras, what are you doing here?" he cried, with a lot less decorum than he had intended.

He could hear laughter in Enjolras' words, which troubled him. That wasn't like Enjolras.

"_I've come to punish you. Do you really think your final act was enough to redeem you in my favor? Do you truly think yourself worthy to look upon me?"_

Any last breath left Grantaire's body. He wished he had jumped, Joly or no Joly. His heart seared with sharp pain, but whether it was within or just one of the weird physical manifestations of this place, it was impossible to tell. The two types of pain had blended together until it was all he was aware of; just an overwhelming blanket of pain. It was all he had left.

"What?" he finally whispered, his throat working separately from his brain and heart.

Enjolras laughed in earnest now, and it was a terrible thing, horrid in its beauty, each laugh cutting into him like so many knives.

"_You were useless in life, and useless in death. Even now, you're useless. You did nothing to help our cause when you were alive. Why would you think that one pitiful attempt at valiance absolves you? You were still my least favorite, the hindrance, the parasite. Nothing can change that."_

If it had been anyone else, Grantaire would have fought back, but this was Enjolras. His Enjolras. The only one he truly loved. He might as well have been tearing him limb for limb, for that was how it felt.

A pregnant silence filled the room as Grantiare attempted to stop the flow of tears he hadn't even noticed had started, and attempt to come up with some semblance of a response. As he searched desperately through his thoughts to remember how to speak, another voice came to him.

"Grantaire?"

This one was Courfeyrac, of that he was sure. He let out a strangled sob. Coureyrac too?

And then he felt a vicious anger. Enjolras loved Courfyrac. He loved Courfeyrac, and not you. Never you.

"Grantaire? Grantaire, what is it?" Courfeyrac asked, the concern in his voice growing.

"Ask Enjolras," Grantaire spat.

"Enjolras…? Grantaire, are you…having a dream? Grantaire! Enjolras isn't here…Grantaire, open your eyes!"

He did automatically, only afterward wondering how long he had been able to.

And there before him was Courfeyrac.

Just Courfeyrac.

Alone.

Enjolras was nowhere to be found.

He looked up into Courfeyrac's concerned brown eyes, and his anger drained away instantly. He missed his friend so much it hurt.

"Enjolras….he was…here…talking to me…." he trailed off, not wanting to remember that conversation.

Courfeyrac shook his head. "I saw Enjolras before I left. I can assure you that he was not here with you…"

Grantaire started shaking with sudden relief and renewed hope. He couldn't help it. "If it wasn't Enjolras…" briefly he wondered if perhaps Joly had been right and he was indeed ill. And then it occurred to him.

"The voice…" he whispered.

"Grantaire, you're scaring me…come on…even drunk you weren't this bad." He reached out to touch him reassuringly, before realizing he couldn't and drawing back somewhat awkwardly.

Grantaire looked up at him. "Courfeyrac," he said softly. "All the time I've been here, I've been alone. Except not really. There's been this…voice…"

Courfeyrac looked uncomfortable. "I wish I could help but there's not much time. I think you might be imagining things. Joly says that can happen when people are in extreme situations of isolation, and after traumatic experiences, or something like that."

Grantaire nodded slowly. This would be both, he thought privately. It surely hadn't seemed made up, but with Courfeyrac here and the memories fading, he could almost believe perhaps he had fallen victim to his loneliness and particularly vivid imagination.

"Alright," he mumbled, looking at Courfeyrac and forcing a smile.

Courfeyrac beamed back. "Now come, I have a memory for you." At this, Grantaire let out a pained groan. "I promise you'll like this one better," Courfeyrac added quickly.

Grantaire nodded resignedly. "I guess I don't have much choice. Lead on." Obendiently, he closed his eyes and waited for the spinning to start.

And waited.

And waited.

But it didn't start.

"Courfeyrac?" he heard a soft chuckle in response.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. They were still in the Musain, which explained the lack of spinning.

And suddenly his heart was in his throat again and his eyes were glistening.

It was full again. His friends were there.

Combeferre and Bahorel were debating the fight or flight instinct, Bahorel's view on the subject distinctly apparent.

Joly and Lesgles were sitting at a long wooden table, looking somewhat flushed. Joly was attempting to wrap Lesgles' finger from a cut he had no doubt sustained from some accident, but from the looks of it, Lesgles was playing a mean game of footsie beneath the table. Grantaire couldn't help but smile.

Feuilly was reading a book in Polish, absently rubbing the gold lettering on the spine.

He didn't see Jehan, Courfeyrac, himself, or…Enjolras.

Everyone looked quite different – different lengths of hair (this was excluding Lesgles, of course), not their normal clothing – but the essence of who they were looked the same. He paused for a second. He didn't remember this particular day. Granted, remembering at this time of his life wasn't exactly his forte.

And then Courfeyrac and Enjolras came up the stairs together, and his heart twinged a bit, reminiscent of his jealousy from earlier.

Enjolras was glorious, and Grantaire forgot to breathe for a second. He had memorized every last minute detail of Enjolras long ago, but somehow seeing him in the flesh was always shocking. He was always more beautiful even than he had imagined.

And now he was young again. Not that he had ever looked old, but his seriousness and the weight of the revolution took its toll on him, even more so toward the…end.

Now, the worried look was a merea shadow of what it had been near the end of his life. He really looked still a boy. A beautiful, shining, golden boy. Without the mask of weariness, his beauty was all the more apparent.

He was conversing with Courfeyrac, but Grantaire had no desire to go and listen. He was content just to see him again and make it last as long as he could possibly make it.

And then the door swung open, and he gasped a little. He remembered this night after all.

Jehan walked in to the Musain, and behind him Grantaire recognized himself. This incarnation seemed most like how he saw himself at the end.

He was slumped over with horrible posture. He was sweaty and he held a bottle in his hand. "Bonjour!" he cried robustly. The others just blinked at him.

Older Grantaire cringed. Watching himself like this was harder than he had expected. If he had just made a better first impression for Enjolras, maybe…

Jehan smiled apologetically at Enjolras. "This one was lurking around the school buildings, so I asked him if he went there and he said he used to be an art student. He didn't seem like he was in the proper state to get home safely, and art students are often open-minded, right? So I brought him along."

Enjolras nodded slowly and looked at Grantaire searchingly. Grantaire turned and noticed him for the first time. His jaw went slack and he froze in place, his eyes locked on Enjolras'. He seemed in danger of dropping the bottle. Jehan took it gently from his loose grasp and quietly watched the two men and their strange interaction. Neither one spoke for a long time.

God, how Grantaire remembered that feeling. He had never seen anyone like Enjolras before. Suddenly he was overly aware of everything about him. How his eyes were a little too far apart, how his nose was too big, how his hair looked pretty awful when it was sweaty and plastered to his face…

Enjolras drew in an imperceptible breath, before nodding once and breaking eye contact to look at Jehan. "He doesn't seem like he'll be a bother." Then, he turned back to Grantaire. "And what's your name?" he asked, voice impossible to read.

"Grantaire," he mumbled, surprised at his own ability to speak.

Enjolras nodded. "Welcome. We meet here nightly to discuss the issues of the world. We try our best to change them. I'm sure you met Jehan, yes? He has christened us Les Amis de l'Abc. In a way we are. We are friends of the people, and we hope you will join us. Over there is…" and he continued on, introducing each of les amis. But all Grantaire's mind could focus on was one. Enjolras. _Enjolras_.

"….so what are your beliefs, Monsieur Grantaire?"

Grantaire realized he had been asked a question. Grantaire laughed cynically. "I believe if you're meeting here nightly until the world is changed, you'll be here forever."

Grantaire felt a strange twinge when he realized how badly he wished that were true, now.

At this, the others chuckled, but Enjolras bestowed upon him no trace of a smile. He nodded shortly.

"Monsieur," he paused, looking directly at Grantiare. "We know why we are here, and we are prepared to be here as long as we need to be. We will be here as long as there continues to be suffering and injustice in this country. Perhaps we will not live to see change come about, but we will still be here because there will always be people who believe in what is right and will carry on our dream, not only of a better France, but of a better world."

Grantaire scoffed. He couldn't believe this man's idealism. "And how exactly do you know that? The world has been around for how long, and no single country has ever been free the way you seem to want it to be. What are you going to do about it?"

Maybe if he hadn't been so drunk, he might not have come on like this. Maybe he could've pretended to believe, and thus work his way into Enjolras' good graces…but it was far too late for that.

"Although we do not practice violence, there are stirrings of rebellion throughout France. We are not alone, and why?" He looked at Grantaire, his ice blue eyes burning an intense blaze. Fire and ice, what a breathtaking combination.

"Because the leaders of the land do not hear the cries of the wretched on the street. They are deaf to the screams of the young widow, the wailing of the orphan, the suffering of those dying cold and alone in the street while they tuck into another course of food that could hold a poorer family over for a week. France is failing because its system is failing. The workers in the factories, their starving peers out of work - these people hold up the country. But when the very country they give themselves over to ceases to provide for those who need provision the most, it is the right - no, it is the _duty_ - of every man to take action against this corrupt government and turn it into the republic these people deserve. We do not plan to fight, Monsieur, but some form of revolution is inevitable, and it is up to the bourgeois themselves whether it must come from violence or compassion."

Grantaire clapped with sarcastic bravado. "And do tell me how that works out for you."

Enjolras shook his head. "Don't you understand? The success is in the attempt. Standing up against injustices is the important part. It is better to go against what you believe is not right than to stand by and allow the horrors to continue. And even you must agree that this is not right. The poor being worked for 18 hour days in dark, overcrowded, disease-ridden workhouses. All men trapped in silence because the speak their beliefs would mean facing the guillotene. Let me ask you, Monsieur - why are we as humans endowed with the ability to think and feel and hope and believe, when the very leaders of our country work to prohibit such things? If these measures are truly to protect the people as we are told, why do they refuse to let the people have opinions? Because they are afraid, just like you are afraid. They are afraid that the people will recognize their corruption and call them out on it, and their whole oligarchy of rich, safe, sheltered men who are supposed to be leading us will be cast out into the very lower class they themselves work to destroy. Your fear is not unusual. Most of the people are too afraid to talk as we do, but we realize that we must set the ball in motion. Without a proper example, the people will not rise and the true republic will never come to be. But it must come to be, and therefore we must be the example. Whether the republic will be built in our lifetimes, it is hard to say. But we must be content in the knowledge that we contributed to a small part of the great, necessary struggle of humanity - the struggle for freedom - and that we did the right thing, though at the time it may have been the hardest."

Enjolras' voice swelled with emotion, as he got going. All throughout the room, not a sound was made. You could have heard a pin drop from outside the cafe. Grantaire, looking back, thought of potential retorts he could have made. But in the moment, something about Enjolras' passion made every word he uttered seem like the only truth you had ever known. Something about him stirred in those around him a great trust and at the same time a great fear of this electric man with the ability to capture the hearts and minds of so many. He could do great things with his words, or terrible. The world was lucky that this man's intentions were as pure as his ice blue eyes. He wanted to save the world, and by god he would do it or die trying.

Older Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac, tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered. Seeing Enjolras speak reminded him what their sacrifice had been for. They had known what they were getting into, as he himself had. Ultimately, everyone had made their own decision. They knew the revolution might fail, and they fought anyway. The others chose to for France, Grantaire for Enjolras.

Courfeyrac nodded, understanding. That was enough.

It all went black and the spinning twirled through him once more.

"Goodbye, Courfeyrac," he said quietly, knowing it was his time to go.

"Goodbye, Grantaire," Courfeyrac said softly.

And as the voice began to hiss his name again, Grantaire knew he could face it. For Enjolras. His hope was renewed.

Always for Enjolras.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Oh my goodness I couldn't be more sorry that it took this long to update. I don't want to bore you with all the reasons why, but just know that I felt something missing without this story, and I hope it continues smoothly and has not lost whatever place it held in your hearts. Please R&R.

**Chapter 6**

"I'm not afraid of you anymore," Grantaire called to the voice calmly. "I have loyal friends and you do not. I feel sorry for you."

_Loyal, you say? What kind of loyalty is it when they all move on to spend eternity together and leave you stuck alone here forever?_

"I'm not stuck here forever! And they are coming to help me get out," he cried, as much trying to convince himself as the voice.

It chuckled, the kind of piercing, ominous chuckle that makes your blood run cold. _I pity the fool…_ it mumbled quietly.

"No! I pity you!" he fought back. The image of Enjolras still fresh in his mind served as all the motivation he needed. He would kill the bloody thing if he needed to. Unable to see or move, he would still kill it if it was the last thing he did.

_Do you? _It hissed. _Well I don't think that's a very good thing…_

And then the spinning started, but no one was there. "Help! Feuilly! Combeferre! E-Enjolras!" his voice broke on the last name, but he called it anyway, willing any of them to rescue him.

The voice laughed its horrible laugh again, and suddenly the spinning stopped. As he became aware of the ground, he realized that it was wet. He felt it with his hands, and as it occurred to him that he wanted to see, his eyes sprung open. Before him he saw his childhood house. He waited for something to happen, and sure enough, the younger version of himself strolled into view. He was wearing nicer clothes than usual, and he carried a meager but tasteful bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. He was whistling what sounded like the celebration song his family sang on birthdays and anniversaries.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered this memory all too well.

Somehow, he couldn't look away as he walked up the path to his home. It was strangely dark, but he knocked. When there was no answer, he pushed open the door. It stood ajar, and he closed his eyes again.

"No," he whispered to nobody and everybody.

_Oh, but you must wait until it finishes_ the voice replied with fiendish delight. He felt his body being pushed against his will into the house. There, he couldn't help but open his eyes again. It was just in time to see the anguish on the face of his younger self.

"Papa? Maman?" he called, but in the pit of his stomach he had known even then that the house was empty.

None of their things were there. Not a scrap of food, not a sewing needle, not a bed or clothes or his painting he had sent home from school that they had hung on the wall. Not a mark was left to show that his family had ever existed. He had come to surprise his mother on her birthday. In her letter she had said they were home. And now no one was there.

He wandered the rooms of the house, growing more outwardly panicked and at the same time more inwardly resolved that he would never see them again. The time lapsed all at once until Grantaire looked out the window and it was very dark. Young Grantaire stood with a sigh and walked out of the house in a stupor. He left the flowers at the front stoop, and uncorked the wine bottle himself.

Somehow, both manifestations of Grantaire appeared back in the room that was his apartment, but without the spinning. It had been time for a meeting with Les Amis, but instead he downed the entire bottle and stumbled over to his desk.

He picked up a charcoal stub and a piece of blank paper, and suddenly, he exploded with motion. All the passion and fury in him convened into this drawing. It materialized into a face. At first it was a face of indeterminate identity. But as features began to take shape, it inadvertently became very familiar. Drunk as he was, he didn't even recognize it. He was consumed only with hate for his family. They had killed Sophronie, and now they had abandoned him. He was officially alone.

A knock on the door resounded through the tiny empty living space. "Go 'way," he muttered, intently fixing the curvature of an eyebrow.

"You weren't at the meeting. I just wanted to make sure you were home," called a voice. It belonged to Feuilly.

An emotion welled up in his chest as he realized someone did care. "I have no home," he seethed, not sure what to do with this sudden feeling.

"Grantaire, let me in," the voice pleaded.

"N…o…." Grantaire tried to respond vehemently, but the alcohol was getting to his brain. "'M fine….go…away…"

He heard an audible sigh outside the door. "Alright. I'll send someone later to check on you."

As the steps padded away, Grantaire watched his eyes grow heavy and begin to flutter closed. His head fell with a plop right on the picture he hadn't quite finished, and within seconds he was snoring loudly.

_See? _the voice cackled. _Alone. No family, no home, nobody._

He had to admit he looked pretty alone. And he keenly remembered how that day had felt. Helplessly, he wanted to get out of this memory.

As if immediately, he felt the spinning begin. But as he felt the floor of the Musain solidify beneath him, the spinning sensation started up again, suddenly. He heard a loud, hissing scream that he knew must be the voice, and then a calm voice rose above the din.

"I'm sorry. For some reason, I couldn't get to the right place to help you." It was Feuilly.

Grantaire was glad to know he was finally with his friend, but he didn't think he could take another memory. "Please…no more…" he whispered.

"I have to, Grantaire," Feuilly said with infinite calm. "Here."

And the spinning stopped and he could open his eyes and…he was back in the exact spot he had left. "I already saw this," he muttered, taking his eyes off his sleeping body.

"Wait."

And then a knock at the door resounded again. Sleeping Grantaire didn't even twitch, but the observing Grantaire jumped, startled. He didn't know anybody had indeed come to check on him.

Expecting to see Feuilly, the wind was knocked out of him as in walked Enjolras himself. He was in shadow in the dark room, so his splendor was a bit diminished, but Grantaire didn't care. He lapped up the image of every inch of him, and watched, suddenly engrossed, as the catlike man walked over to where he lay sleeping like a baby.

He looked down at him with such disapproval in his eyes that Grantaire would've quit drinking forever if he had only seen that look. But then, to his complete and utter shock, Enjolras put his thin but surprisingly muscular arms around the snoring man, lifted him and guided him into the bed. Grantaire did not wake, and, as he realized with a poignant ache, had he not seen this memory, he would never have known of this.

Enjolras looked at him sleeping soundly for a second, and something strange was in his eyes. Something he could not detect.

He was about to exit the room, when he noticed the bottle on the floor beside the desk. He walked over and picked it up to dispose of it, when he caught sight of the drawing on the desk. He peered in closer and realized that it was his own face staring back at him.

Grantaire's breath caught and he forgot to finish breathing. "No…" he whispered, mortified and wondering why on earth Feuilly was showing him this, if not to embarrass him.

But then, he watched the corners of that golden mouth upturn in the semblance of a smile. He leaned down and kissed what would be his own forehead if the drawing were to come to life.

Grantaire closed his eyes, imagining the feel of those lips brushing his own forehead as he had dreamt of a hundred times.

Then, without a word or a backward glance, Enjolras left the apartment.

Grantaire's heart felt as though it would burst, and they spun back to the apartment in silence.

As they arrived, the silence was not broken. Finally, Grantaire looked up at Feuilly. "I guess you didn't have a home either. How…how did it feel to die so far away from the home you loved?"

Feuilly looked at him, his bright red hair somehow brighter in its heavenly light. "France was my home as much as Poland. I loved them both – Poland was my first love, but France was the one I was married to. It felt…right." He smiled earnestly.

"You had more of a home than me, then," Grantaire muttered, staring at the ground. He was still hurting from the first half of the memory.

Feuilly crouched down so his face was in Grantaire's line of sight.

"Grantaire, the most important thing you can realize is that home is not so much a place, but wherever you feel loved. That is why I could embrace France so easily – you were all here to welcome me. While your family abandoned you and you lost one home, you found a new one here, with us. That is what I showed you the memory for. So you can realize – you were never truly alone."

Tears danced in Grantaire's eyes. "Thank you," he muttered gruffly.

"I think it's time to go. My work here is done," Feuilly said softly. "See you on the other side."

And just like that, he was gone.

Grantaire leaned back up against his wall, his hope once again renewed. Enjolras had cared for him after all.

"Take that, voice," he muttered.

And for once, it had nothing to say.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: It has been an obscenely long amount of time since the last update and I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I hope this begins to bring some closure and make up for my absence a little. Please R&R if it still strikes your fancy.

**Chapter 7**

All at once, the silence was broken by a taunting cackling of the voice. He found new strength from the last memory and was able to tune it out so he didn't catch a word of it.

_Enjolras cared. Enjolras cared. Enjolras cared._

He repeated it over and over and its truth silenced the voice so suddenly and profoundly that he wondered if perhaps he was in fact having hallucinations much like the ones Joly had diagnosed.

He found, to his own disgust, that he almost missed its company. But of course there was another on the way.

He recognized the bespectacled face and mousy dirty blonde hair instantly. "Combeferre," he said, more with exhaustion than anything.

Combeferre stood before him. "Grantaire," he replied with a sigh and a hint of a smile in the sparkling eyes.

"Combeferre, explain it to me. I don't want another memory. I want to know what's going on finally. You're the explainer – the teacher – what is happening to me?" he pleaded.

Combeferre's patient eyes softened ever so slightly as he weighed his friend's plea. "In fact, that is what I came for. Knowledge first. Walk with me."

It appeared this place modified to the needs of others as well, for as soon as he said it, the wood of the Musain trailed off into the distance until it morphed gradually into a long dirt path, lit by whitish light.

Grantaire stood and fell into step beside his friend. "I've been doing some research," Combeferre began, and Grantaire couldn't help but smile – this conversation seemed almost normal. "And I have found that certain souls are sometimes prevented from moving on directly to the place Beyond, and are instead detained."

"Wait a second – how can you do research in whatever place you're at? Beyond, or wherever?" Grantaire asked skeptically.

Combeferre's face lit up with the question. "Oh! Beyond is what you want it to be! Much like here, whatever you want is accommodated by your surroundings, since, essentially there is no space or time. Anyway," he quickly continued as he caught Grantaire's annoyed look, "My Beyond, quite predictably, included all the knowledge I could ever hope to possess. Naturally, my first point of inquiry was to find out how and why you were where you were, and subsequently how to bring you to us."

Grantaire nodded. "Go on…"

"Anyhow, it came to my attention that these souls that were detained were lacking something."

Grantaire snorted but kept silent.

"Anyway, these souls were all lacking something that they needed to have lived a fulfilling life. Some lacked joy, others courage, some the belief in luck, some true healing, others loyalty, and still others a true home. Each of these missing elements became a demon that possessed and tortured their very souls until their spirits either came to develop the elusive trait, or they were driven completely mad and sent down Below. In some ways it was the weighing of the heart against the feather, or the purifying of sins."

"Yes, that's all fine and good but why is this 'Beyond' so damn selective?" Grantaire cried, reaching the end of his patience.

"You'll see," Combeferre replied. "But for now, I am giving you as much of your explanation as I can."

"Fine. Continue," Grantaire replied, subdued.

"If they came to face their demon, they would make it successfully beyond."

"But I don't understand-" Grantaire cut in again, "all of the Amis have come and shown me that I did have joy- like Jehan said! And courage like Bahorel and the luck Lesgles showed me and Joly's healing and Courfeyrac's loyalty and a home among you like Feuilly said!"

"Indeed," Combeferre agreed.

"Then what was my demon?!" Grantaire cried.

Combeferre smiled a little. "Doubt."

"W-what?" Grantaire stammered.

"Yes, doubt. You didn't' believe in yourself. That is what the voice was, you know. The demon created from your own self-doubt. For all your false confidence and bravado, you were insecure and full of doubt. That is why it stopped whenever any of the Amis showed you a good memory that made you realize a trait you possessed – it brought you one step closer to realizing that your real demon was doubt. You were and are all those things, Grantaire – the only real flaw in your spirit was your inability to see how great you really were – no, are."

Grantaire stood there in awe, gaping and speechless.

"That is why we took it upon ourselves to come to you one by one and show you the important parts of your life. We could not tell you outright until you figured it out yourself and beat your demon yourself - but we could show you as best we could. Why? Because we care about you. Because you matter."

Grantaire slowly began to smile. "So the hissing voice – the cackling, the horrible memories – it was all just me after all…." he mused. "But…I really am good enough."

Combeferre beamed. "Yes, Grantaire. You are."

Slowly, Grantaire's face fell. "But my soul still missed one more thing while it was alive."

"And what was that?" Combeferre asked.

"Love," Grantaire whispered.

"And I believe now is time for the final….journey. I would not call it a memory, for it is very much the here and now."

And with that, Grantaire's eyes were clamped shut again and he felt the spinning, for what he felt sure would be the last time.

As it came to a stop, he opened his eyes. He was in a huge, vast field. It was green and grassy and sunlight shone down on him. Combeferre was gone, but he did not panic. He felt confident he would see him again very soon.

Over the hill in the distance suddenly materialized a familiar form. "Sophronie…." he whispered. She looked as though she were sixteen again, healthy and beautiful and pure. She radiated joy and beauty as she floated up to him.

"Hello Emile," she said serenely. "Welcome Beyond."

And she floated up beside him.

Next over the hill came the startlingly beautiful curly red head of Charbonneau. Grantaire's eyes filled with tears as he neared him.

"Don't cry, Emile. Remember me?"

"Do I? You're the first one to love me," Grantaire responded, choking on the word love. For then it hit him. He had not been deprived of love after all.

All at once, the shapes of his mother and father came over the hill, looking in their prime and not the tired old souls they had been at the end. Memories of good times flooded in and he had to smile.

"Son, we are so proud," his father said in a deep voice reminiscent of his own.

"Darling, we didn't mean to leave you. The sickness hit us while you were gone, you see. We had to go to the city for medicine, and we never made it back. But we thought of you all the while. And your painting wasn't at home because I took it with me everywhere we went. It was buried with us, Emile. We love you ever so much."

They, too took their place beside the others and Grantaire suddenly realized he hadn't been abandoned at all.

And then the Amis were there. First Combeferre, then Feuilly, then Courfeyrac and Joly and Lesgles and Bahorel and finally Jehan. Each represented the best in him in their own way. His best friends and his past lined up on either side of him – everything felt alright. Everything except –

"Where is he?" Grantaire turned to Combeferre, who smiled a little.

"Look."

As if from the air Combeferre had just breathed out, a cloud appeared in the air. It began as a little puff, but it grew and grew and grew before their very eyes to at least six feet tall. Then a ball of light began to shine within the cloud. Visible within the cloud were four elements – water, wind, earth and fire. They began to spin suddenly – round and round like a giant tornado. Grantaire stared, transfixed.

As abruptly as it had started, it stopped. As the dust began to settle, it began to form a figure. It started out as a rough, humanlike shape, but as Grantaire watched, the earth slowly spread into features of the pale face and limbs. The fire became the golden hair, the water the sparkling blue eyes, and the wind the passionate breath. It was Enjolras.


End file.
